


Shatter Me

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, bilbo helps him, c:, give us a chance precious, i dont think, i suck at summaries ugh, it's not that heavy, much fluff, plz read, serious at the beginning though, t for mentions of self-harm and depression, the end part is literally so fluffy, themes of depression self-harm and suicide, thorin's depression and ptsd, very aww
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have never believed in coincidence, or fate; but I am endlessly thankful for the day I left my journal on the train, as well as every second since."</p><p>Every problem has a solution, whether it comes from inside or outside the mind; only Thorin Durinson can't see that, and needs someone to show him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shatter Me

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first try at writing something meaningful. I hope it's alright, and if it triggers anyone I am so, so sorry.

The office was darkened with twilight, the discordant sound of birdsong and the patter of rain drifting tiredly through the heavy red curtains. There was a single figure hunched over a cleanly modern desk, his curtain of liberally silver-streaked hair brushing the glass desktop. He stared down at a blank sheet of parchment, a wrinkle forming between his dark brows.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he brought the nib of his pen to the paper and began to write in a clear, bold text, memories surfacing as the nib scratched across the perfect whiteness **.**

**-**

**Imagine that you own some sort of glass object, one that’s very important to you.**

_He couldn’t remember when it started._

_Maybe it had always been there, lurking at the back of his mind, and it had taken the mud and rust and lifeblood of war to awaken it. Maybe it was a part of him, one that could never truly be vanquished._

_Whatever the reason, it was there, and nothing he could do seemed able to budge it._

**You use it frequently, maybe even every day.**

_His family and friends never noticed, perhaps because he had always been an able liar. Or maybe they just didn’t pay the attention required, or put it down to something else, or didn’t want to confront him about it. He found small solace with his sister, and when his young nephews yelled and leaped and tugged he all but forgot about it._

**Then out of the blue, it cracks.**

_He wasn’t sure what changed. Before, it had been periodical, random; perhaps occurring once or twice a week. It became constant, an ever-present lead blanket laying over his thoughts, muffling out the last dogged sparks._

**You continue to use it regardless, and always the cracks widen.**

_He kept on smiling, kept on pretending; but he woke in cold sweat in the middle of the night – when he slept at all – and he lost interest in everything. In drawing, his company, his friends, even his family. He was just so empty, and couldn’t seem to muster the will to care._

**Every time, you stick on a little duct tape and tell yourself it’ll be fine. It is never fixed, not really, and the cracks are constantly on your mind.**

_Every little thing reminded him of it. A small word, the tiniest gesture, the most miniscule hint at the subject, pushed him further along his downwards trajectory. His nephews’ antics didn’t penetrate it anymore, and his sister’s worried glances became more and more frequent until he felt like an animal trapped within a cage._

**The glass becomes weaker and weaker, until it nears the breaking point.**

_He could feel himself spiralling, falling further, but couldn’t seem to break the vicious cycle. He was proud, much too proud, to seek help of any sort; and he shouldered the burden alone._

_But his shoulders were becoming tired._

**Maybe it’s just a small thing, but something sets it off, and the glass shatters into a thousand pieces.**

_His sister mentioned it in passing, voiced her worry at his withdrawal and loss of interest. However well-meant her concern was, it only drove realisation home for him; and he sunk even deeper, so deep he felt that he would never see the sun or warmth again._

**You desperately try to piece it back together, to fix it, but even as you try you give up.**

_Trying didn’t seem to work. Activity only tired him even more. People only found ways to trigger it, and his family only made him feel guilty about the entire matter._

**For some, it is never fixed. Some people give up on everything and simply let go.**

_His grandfather had given up. Completely. It was a long time ago, yet it was always on his mind. He still remembered the effects; his father’s resultant descent into madness, his mother’s leaving, his sister’s toughening and his brother’s illness._

_But that wouldn’t happen if he were to do it, he was sure. His family hardly even saw him any more; he had purposefully distanced himself, preparing for the day when he finally let go._

**I was close to that point, when I found him.**

_It was a small incident, one that may have escaped the thoughts of others. A brief encounter on a train, a forgotten journal and its subsequent return._

_But he never forgot._

**The cracks in my glass were widening, and the duct tape would not work any longer.**

_His own reassurances had ceased to function, the small positive voice in his mind gleefully quashed by the dark snigger beside it. He felt almost like he was already gone, and drifted through life like a ghost; the only thing keeping him going was, for some reason, the memory of that stranger’s smile._

**I met him; and his words, laugh, and being, became my glue. I was finally able to forget about the cracks.**

_He had met him again, exactly one week later, on the very same train at the very same time. The stranger had come right up to him without permeable and walked right through the doorway of his life. He couldn’t really bring himself to care, at first, and when the stranger drew him into conversation as effortlessly as breathing he found himself forgetting._

**I was never truly whole, never truly without flaw; but I was better than I ever was, and I could go on.**

_They met every week on the midnight train. At first it was by chance, but then he found himself purposefully planning the meetings: leaving work late, or early, as it may; seeking him out on the train; listening for his laugh at the station. They even met by chance at the supermarket once, and out of nowhere he found himself asking him to dinner._

_He had, of course, been happy to comply._

**He fixed me, and so I gave him the only return I could; it was nowhere near good enough, but it was all I could offer.**

_It became a periodical thing, these dinners, replacing those first meetings on the train. They began meeting at other places as well, places he had not visited in what felt like an age. They went to the park, the river, museums and art galleries and theatres, the other man ignoring his half-hearted protests and dragging him along with a firm hand and a bright smile._

**I gave him my heart, body, and soul, so he could truly see what he did for me.**

_It took months for him to finally muster up the courage, along with heavy persuasion and even blackmail from his sister and nephews; but he had done it. He had done it, and it was the best decision of his life._

_An engagement ring had never looked quite so beautiful._

**-**

The birdsong had faded and the rain ended when the man raised his head, his joints groaning in complaint. It was now fully dark, the paper hardly visible through the thick coating of shadows; he flicked the switch of a desk lamp and winced slightly at the blinding brightness pooling across the surface of the desk.

He scanned the page, pen poised in the air, mouth turned down in concentration; it was only when the words blurred together that he realized the weight on his eyelids and limbs.

It was not the damning, crippling weight of before; no, that was merely a ghost of an old life and pain. He had not felt so terribly heavy for decades, and the scar tissue that still remained was merely a faint weal on his skin, both literally and figuratively.

He would later vehemently deny his start of surprise as the door creaked open.

‘Thorin Durinson, what in heaven’s name are you still doing awake? And for your information, jet lag is no longer a viable answer.’

Thorin made no effort to hide his small smile in the face of the other’s scolding; he would most likely see it in his eyes anyway, and the slight man in the doorway looked so ridiculously rumpled it wasn’t worth hiding.

‘I simply was reluctant to interfere in your battle with the bedsheets, and decided that the office would be safe from the girls and their lot.’

As Thorin knew he would, the other man relented and broke in to a warm smile, carding a hand through his unkempt curls. They were, like Thorin’s, streaked with silver, and his face bore more lines than it had at their first meeting; but to Thorin he hadn’t changed an inch from the man he had met that night on the train.

‘Let it never be said that Bilbo Durinson backs down from a challenge, at any rate,’ Bilbo said with a smile. ‘Those sheets were well and truly vanquished.’

‘I would not be more impressed had you stolen from a dragon.’

Bilbo rolled his eyes at Thorin’s tease, but didn’t even bother concealing his small chuckle. He straightened his knitted sweater with one hand as the taller man rose to his feet, stretching his arms above his head and cracking his every joint as he did so.

‘Thorin!’ Bilbo whined, hitting his arm. ‘I told you no!’

In answer, Thorin smirked unabashedly.

‘A Dhaideo, I’m hungry.’

The small, sleepy words came from a little brown-haired boy wilting against the doorframe. Bilbo swooped down on him instantly, scooping him into his arms.

‘Why didn’t you go to Zera? She can’t say no to her favourite cousin.’

The little boy frowned, his huge blue eyes narrowing. ‘But Zee and Kee are out, with Uncle,’ he pointed out exasperatedly. ‘He’s telling them to shoot bows n’ arrows.’

Bilbo didn’t miss Thorin’s little sigh and head-shake out of the corner of his eye; the dark-haired Durinson clearly did not approve of his nephew’s parenting methods, though Zera and Kieran seemed to be turning out fine so far.

‘What about Fern? I’m sure she’s still awake.’

The boy snuffled irritably and buried his curls into his grandfather’s sweater. ‘She married now,’ he said, as if it should be obvious.

Bilbo barely held back his small laugh and instead gave a serious nod.

‘She’s still the same person, Will. Being married hasn’t turned her into some sort of monster; you know, she _is_ the same cousin you grew up with.’

Will huffed a sigh and wriggled in assent, prompting Bilbo to put him down gently.

‘Now go and ask Fern,’ Bilbo said softly. ‘And don’t eat too many cookies, they’re bad for your teeth.’

The little boy gave an impatient nod before bounding out, clearly excited at the thought of chocolate-chips and gooey caramel.

‘Thanks, Daideo!’ he called over his shoulder. Bilbo jumped smartly forwards and caught the door before it could slam and wake the entire household.

‘I’m still not sure about the boys’ parenting skills,’ Thorin muttered.

Bilbo gave a laugh, not fooled the man’s angry scowl. He could see right through it like a pane of glass, all the way to the pride and warmth he held for his nephews.

‘Nonsense. Fili and Kili are fine parents; and besides, Tauriel and Sigrid keep them in line. I’m sure nothing too calamitous will happen.’

Thorin nodded grudgingly, causing Bilbo to slide over to where he stood and put a hand on his arm.

‘Trust me,’ he said softly.

‘I do,’ Thorin replied, without preamble.

 After a pause, his scowl smoothed and he smiled at the shorter man.

‘Will is a good lad.’

‘That he is. Frodo raised him well.’

‘As did you for him.’

Bilbo pursed his lips and gave Thorin a disapproving look, inciting a teasing eyebrow raise from the other. Bilbo oft wished his glares had the effect Thorin’s had on most people; he had never been intimidated by them himself, but he had long watched people cower before that scowl.

‘Give yourself some credit,’ Bilbo tutted, poking the taller man in the chest. ‘We adopted him _together_ , and raised him _together_ , and guided him _together_. Alright?’

‘Alright,’ Thorin agreed huskily. An unfairly handsome smile curled up the corner of his mouth.

‘Good.’

Yielding against unrelenting force, Bilbo gave Thorin a quick kiss before taking his hand firmly.

‘Now, are you going to come to bed willingly, or will I have to drag you kicking and screaming?’

Thorin didn’t even bother to hide his laugh at the mental image as the smaller man towed him towards the door. The warm smoothness of his engagement ring was a comforting feeling against Thorin’s fingers, and it firmly banished any bad memories still floating about.

Indeed, an engagement ring had never looked quite so beautiful until it was worn by the one who fixed him once and for all; the small, quirky, curly-haired man who had banished the last shadow of any crack the moment he became Bilbo Durinson.

**I have never believed in coincidence, or fate; but I am endlessly thankful for the day I left my journal on the train, as well as every second since.**

**All problems can be fixed by the ones you love. And there is always someone who loves you; I see that now, with my eyes free of the fetters that once bound me. There is always hope for the future. You, and you alone, have complete control over everything that happens from this second onwards, and you can decide to do whatever you like with your life.  So forget about judgements and scorn and embarrassment and regrets, and remember smiles and laughter and confidence and happiness. There is always someone there for you, even perhaps a stranger that hands you back your forgotten journal.**

**I have been pieced back together more strongly than ever before, and never again will it shatter me.**

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it c:  
> much fluff wow
> 
> okay so the entire metaphor about glass shattering was from my friend, describing what it's like to have depression. Hopefully this wasn't too dark, or heavy, or hopeless or saddening. It was meant to be optimistic. So.
> 
> Daideo is the Irish term for grandfather because I feel like Bilbo is Irish for some reason, so Frodo and therefore Will would have been raised calling them Irish things. Idk, hehe.
> 
> Any feedback is as always highly appreciated, whether it is bad or good, constructive or just plain criticism. I would like to hear it c:
> 
> -love, rematz <3
> 
> stay strong.


End file.
